


The Path Of The Righteous Man

by gaialux



Category: Pulp Fiction (1994), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 06:13:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1929735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaialux/pseuds/gaialux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They'll always have work to do. Dean having sold his soul doesn't stop that, especially not in Marsellus Wallace's world. He sends Sam and Dean to retrieve his briefcase that holds the one thing Dean needs most of all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Path Of The Righteous Man

**Author's Note:**

> AU: Sam and Dean work for Marsellus, Sam still died, and Dean still sold his soul.

Dean's talking about diner food. About how diner burgers in the South are bigger than diner burgers up North, and how those on the West coast try to hard to be unique. He doesn't talk about burgers on the East coast. Sam doesn't ask.  
  
The street he's taking them down is slowly dwindling into ramshackle apartment buildings separated by cardboard box palaces. Sam can count three drug deals going on within as many minutes before Dean pulls over and looks up apartment complex they've stopped in front of.  
  
"This the place?" Sam asks. He pulls out a crinkled sheet of paper from his pocket and squints at Dean's chicken-scratch handwriting. It doesn't matter if he can't read the address; there's no numbers on the building.  
  
"Yep." Dean slaps open the glove-compartment and pulls out two handguns. He gives one to Sam and wedges the other into his waistband. "Should have fucking shotguns."  
  
Sam's own guns goes into his holster, one Dean bought him for his last birthday with a not-so-subtle hint of expecting one in return come January. "How many guys?"  
  
"About five."  
  
Sam lets out a low whistle. "You have any idea exactly why we're doing this?" he asks. "Considering..." he trails off and leaves Dean to fill in the blanks.  
  
"You wanna tell Marsellus we pussied out?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "Be my guest, but it's your ass he's having."  
  
He's right of course. Sam chews down on his lip as he follows his brother across the road and inside the building. Nobody blinks an eye at two guys in cheap suits as they make their way to the elevator, Dean pressing the button and waiting as it lights up red.  
  
"I thought you wanted this job, anyway," Dean says. "Or the money at least."  
  
"If you search your mind, Dean, you'll see that was  _you_." Seated in their motel room, rapid-fire conversation with Marsellus about a briefcase given to two low-level cronies. To be returned by 7:30AM on Tuesday according to Dean's notes.  
  
Dean shrugs, looks contemplative, nods.  
  
The elevator door opens. The two of them step inside.  
  
"But it is good money," Dean says.  
  
"Who are you trying to convince?" Sam presses the number five. "You or me?"  
  
Dean doesn't answer, so Sam goes with  _you._  Dean's had to do a whole lot of convincing himself, or so Sam's concluded. Trying to practice cognitive dissonance, and failing spectacularly most of the time. His brother just throws himself into work and hopes that will offer them an answer. It hasn't yet, but Sam's attempting optimism.  
  
"What time is it?" Dean asks as the elevator door re-opens out on the fifth story landing. It looks almost identical to the ground floor, carpet maybe a slightly dirtier grey.  
  
Sam looks at his watch. "Seven twenty-nine."  
  
"Perfect."  
  
Dean steps out first and Sam's at his heels, soon falling into synchronised steps as they make their way down the long corridor to room 49, another addition to Dean's note, written on cheap motel stationary and stained brown with the coffee he spilt yesterday morning. He knocks when the golden number shines at them, and there's the sound of a deadbolt being released. Not even asking for names? These guys are in way over their heads.  
  
"Hey kids," Dean greets as he saunters into the room. Sam leaves Dean to do whatever it is he likes to do to make this more fun, and follows the instructions Marsellus Wallace deliberately gave him in a phone call the next day while Dean was still sleeping off his hangover.  _Under the bed, brown briefcase, number the same as everything_.  
  
"Good burger," Dean's saying. "Hey, Sammy, we gotta get us some of these."  
  
Sam looks up briefly. "Uh-huh."  
  
Right now there's some slightly more pressing matters going on, and Sam kneels down to rifle under the bed, hoping to god he doesn't get bitten by something, and pulls out the sorely hidden briefcase. He gets back up, places it on the counter top, and half-heartedly listens as Dean starts waxing poetically about the burgers across America. When he puts in the numbers to unlock the case and lift the lid, everything in the background fades away.  
  
\--  
  
"Kid's burger was better," Dean says once they're settled in a diner booth. Dean with a huge plate of bacon and pancakes that Sam wrinkles his nose at before cutting into his omelette.  
  
"Kid's burger probably wasn't heart-attack on a plate."  
  
Dean shrugs and shovels three pieces of bacon into his mouth, following a split-second later with half his cup of coffee. "You want some?"  
  
"I'm expecting to live a while longer."  
  
It's only after Sam says the words that hot dread climbs up his neck and Dean gives him a steady gaze, fingers lowering to pick up more bacon. Sam isn't sure what he's supposed to stay, his throat going dry and heat turning strong enough to burn. Yeah, of course he's going to live. Because Dean is going to die. Tit-for-tat.  
  
"You know," Dean says, and Sam knows the subject's changed just from his brother's tone of voice. "Marsellus didn't tell me what we were collecting for him." He kicks the briefcase at Sam's feet.  
  
"Didn't tell me either," Sam says, popping a piece of food into his mouth and chewing slowly. It proves hard to swallow.  
  
"Maybe," Dean says. "But I know you looked in it. What are we giving him this time?"  
  
"Same as always."  
  
"Which is?"  
  
Coffee doesn't make the ability to speak any easier. He remembers the light, shining bright, blinding. Actually remembers Marsellus' words, though why he didn't tell Dean as well Sam will never know.  _Because_ Marsellus  _knows_ , his mind tries to supply,  _Marsellus knows everything. So he sure as fuck knows about Dean's deal_. Valid point, maybe. Sam's been thinking it over as they drove to the diner, eyes glancing from Dean to the briefcase and back again. He's not sure how it would work --  _if_ it would work -- but his mind's in overdrive and it might be easier to just spill the beans than put up with Dean's hawk-eye gaze for the remainder of the meal.  
  
"Soul," Sam says, poking at his food with his fork.  
  
Dean splutters on his coffee. "Come again?"  
  
"That's what it is." He knows how bizarre it sounds out loud. "Marsellus Wallace's soul. Neatly packed and in one convenient case."  
  
"Show me," Dean demands, voice rising. He goes for the briefcase, but Sam's faster and pulls it out of his reach.  
  
"Really, Dean." Sam lowers his voice, hopes Dean will do the same. "With all the crazy shit we know, how hard is that to believe? You of all people--"  
  
No such luck in making Dean shut up. " _Hell_ , Sam. Souls go to  _Hell_. They don't just show up in briefcases you happen to be holding in your own fucking hands!"  
  
People are looking now, eyes looking without trying to look as they read newspapers or sip on coffee. If Marsellus heard Dean now, his deal would be due today. That thought swirls around in Sam's stomach and he clenches the briefcase tighter. The  _soul_ tighter. One that Marsellus somehow got back but wouldn't share why, even when Sam got to a point where he wasn't ashamed to practically beg. So Marsellus definitely knows about Dean.  
  
"Do you believe in miracles, Dean?" he asks instead.  
  
"I don't even believe in God."  
  
"I'm not talking about God," Sam insists, only he is. Big man in the sky who has to save his brother because it looks like nobody else will. "Just... _miracles_. Things happening that nobody can explain."  
  
"Sure Bobby could explain everything you need, Sammy," Dean says, his voice turning hard. He finishes off the rest of the bacon, the pancakes, his coffee. "We gotta go see Marsellus."  
  
"No." Sam reaches out and grips Dean's wrist, hauling him back down to the table and refusing to let go now matter how hard Dean tries to pull or how mean his face twists. "You're going to sit here and you're going to listen to me."  
  
Dean doesn't respond. His eyes bore into Sam's. Testing him, taunting him. Dean will listen, but he won't  _hear_.  
  
"Everyday miracles. Do you remember Providence? The angel?"  
  
"That was a narcissistic ghost!"  
  
"No, Dean, it wasn't." Sam swallows. "It doesn't matter what it  _was_ , it matters what it  _did_. It saved people, and you told me--"  
  
Dean manages to [reef] his wrist away from Sam's grip. "I  _know_ what I told you."  
  
"Then you  _believed_ ," Sam says. When Dean doesn't get up and storm out of the diner, Sam continues. "So why is it so hard to believe that this might be something we can use?"  
  
Short, chipped laughter floats from Dean. "Oh, yeah, right. Bright idea, Sammy -- steal Marsellus Wallace's soul. I'll die either way."  
  
Sam shakes his head. "No, not steal --  _use_. Find out how he did it and replicate the results."  
  
"We can't do that." Dean's face is softening, Sam's sure of it. Growing young and afraid, mouth twitching as he bites down on his bottom lip and looks away.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
Dean's gaze falls back on him. Terror's still swimming in his vision, and Sam finally  _gets_ it. Of course Dean believes; he just doesn't think he's worthy of getting anything back.  
  
"How?" Dean asks, and he's mouthing the word more than saying it.  
  
"I don't know," Sam tells him, honest. "But I told you I'm gonna save you, and I will. So just trust me on this, okay? Just try it with me."  
  
Dean's eyes are flickering through a thousand emotions just as Sam watches, and his own mind is passing through just as many. He's asking Dean to trust him on what could be a suicide mission, he knows that. If Marsellus gets even the smallest whiff of what they're trying to do, the two of them are as good as dead. But at least death with a soul means Heaven. Or nothingness. The latter is still better than Hell must be.  
  
"Please," Sam says. He just needs permission to try, that's all. To figure what it all means and just go from there.  
  
It's a sorry excuse for a nod that Sam eventually gets, but it's a nod. It's agreement. Sam tries a tentative smile that Dean doesn't return, but it's still enough.  
  
"Come on," Sam says. "I think we oughta leave now."  
  
"That's probably a good idea."


End file.
